


Battles Won

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Canon Compliant, M/M, Pre-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-20
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-26 05:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14993561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Just a random interlude from the war, between series two and three. Orders change, they do as their told though who knows why, who ever knows why in war? Porthos is as usual key to everything and absolutely awesome, Athos adores him.





	Battles Won

**Author's Note:**

> I am terrible at summaries. Whatever
> 
> WARNINGS: Pepin's death and his being enslaved at the time is mentioned in passing.

Changed orders switch their course from the front to a territory on the Rhine. They don’t know why, it isn’t Spanish territory, it’s barely French territory. They do as they’re told, moving fast across the war-torn landscape that they’ve left, pausing only now and then. They go on foot for a while - an abandoned village with a harvest never brought in, on the cusp of rotting back into the land, gives them provision that the horses carry. They eat well and can share when they come across refugees. Most are making their way to Paris. Athos’s men are disciplined, d’Artagnan makes sure they are kind to everyone they come across. Porthos makes sure the younger boys (not men yet, still beardless) keep a good bit of pessimism about people and they keep a watchful eye for thieves and criminals even as they’re kind. Porthos sits with the refugees a lot, listening to them, watching light fingers take things the regiment can barely afford to lose. Barely, but maybe just about. If Porthos is feeling kindly. He only breaks one man’s wrist, and that man had been boasting about taking more than food from a vulnerable town, men all gone to fighting. Half the women too, probably, often the women go too, disguised or open, Athos thinks, watching Porthos steam in front of the fire. He’s literally and figuratively steaming. The man who tried to take Pepin’s medicines is lying whimpering outside the circle of light and warmth. 

 

“Should we have risked the fire?” d’Artagnan says, coming over, coming off a watch blowing on his hands. “Food?”

 

“Moral,” Athos says, passing d’Artagnan some bread and a bowl of stew someone made from rabbits caught. It’s pretty good fare, tonight. “There are still apples left too but you’ll have to wrangle one out of Porthos. I ate all of mine.”

 

“Don’t I have any?” d’Artagnan asks. 

 

“You keep giving them away,” Porthos says. Athos starts, he hadn’t noticed Porthos getting up. Porthos gives him a smug look, folding himself down to sit with them, groaning and creaking. Mostly the armour creaking. He behaves like it’s his bones. “I’m getting old.”

 

“And fat,” d’Artagnan agrees, then is silent to eat. Athos watches in fascination - it’s like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. 

 

“Growing taller, I am,” Porthos says, leaning back, missing some point of balance and toppling all the way and lying there, looking up at the sky. He calls around to the men nearest, “can’t see stars like this in Paris, boys!”

 

“What Paris  _ has _ got is a right sight better than you lot to look at, though,” someone calls back. Amyot, Athos thinks. 

 

“I am beautiful,” Porthos says, which sets someone laughing but Amyot calls back an agreement. “A whole river of stars up there. Look at it.”

 

“It’s clear,” Athos say, getting up. “No clouds. Porthos.”

 

Porthos sighs but that must have been his point, more or less. He gets up and they put out the fire, passing around brandy instead. It’s a small stash that they’ve been keeping for when it’s needed. Days riding hard, walking, sleeping scant hours in mud - moral is definitely down. They pass among the men, Athos giving encouraging touches and quiet stern words, Porthos making jokes and tugging young boys used to having brothers about into rough, tussling hugs. d’Artagnan joins them when he’s done eating, lounging with the men, drinking, laughing. Younger than Athos and Porthos he becomes one of them much more easily. Porthos could, if he wanted, but he doesn’t. He offers a kind of easy, boisterous competence, offsetting Athos’s sometimes scatty, grim, hard working captaincy. They meet at the other side of the camp and relieve the men on the watch there, sending them to rest, sitting shoulder to shoulder. They’ll reach their position tomorrow, a small town on the bank of the Rhine, if they leave some supplies with the refugees they have amidst them, ride hard. 

 

“You are fighting fit?” Athos checks. 

 

“Fighting. Yes, finally some fight,” Porthos says. “Worst is the waiting. Not much action in war, eh? And no red guards to seek out and roust.”

 

“No rousting,” Athos agrees, sternly. “What did that man do?”

 

“Who?” Porthos asks, wrapping himself in an air of innocence, ignoring the knowing look Athos levels at him. Athos switches from calm professional, though, melting into Porthos’s side and wriggling his fingers into a ticklish spot, hugging Porthos. “Give over. Fine,” Porthos says. Athos sits up again, touching Porthos’s cheek affectionately. “He just stole food, okay? That wasn’t his, that was needed. Took clothes and medicines and things to sell, too. Took anything. Took things off the dead.”

 

“Fine. Don’t break people’s wrists,” Athos says. 

 

“I didn’t,” Porthos says, with an air of indignant, wounded innocence. “Broke his bloody elbow.”

 

Athos laughs, trying not to. Porthos grins and ruffles his hair then settles, looking out over the land, keeping watch. Athos settles too, following his lead. They sit until light begins to show then Porthos goes to get some rest, Athos going to plan the day. He’s too worked up to sleep, always is the night before a fight. Porthos keeps him company, he knows, but he also values his rest. Athos finds him, later when they’re breaking camp, sitting with d’Artagnan, listening as d’Artagnan talks earnestly, heads bent close. 

 

“Ready?” Porthos asks, looking up at Athos. 

 

Athos nods, with a sense of trepidation. It’s a good plan, though. He nods again, more decisively, and they move off. He stops for a meal at midday and gives out orders, spreading his men into a net - a force from the front, the rest coming in with more stealth, from the sides. They don’t want a siege, they haven’t the troops or the supplies. Athos considers. 

 

“Anyone know the town?” Porthos asks. “No? Fine, we’ll find someone who does. Find a way in.”

 

Athos sighs but nods. Porthos grins at him, finishes his apple, tosses his bag to Pepin (staying back here with the messengers, still very young), and picks four men. Athos sends a fifth, a sharp shooter, and they ride out, gone in the dust quickly. Athos talks to his lieutenants once more, sends a messenger boy back to the position the general is holding, makes sure Pepin will be prepared for casualties, then he too rides out. 

 

**

 

“You gave your apples to Pep,” Jacques says, riding at Porthos’s side. He’s grown, now broad shouldered and sun-browned. And with a scruff of beard. He still has a laconic air which comes across as a bit dozy. Good at fitting in, keeping quiet, slipping by unnoticed. 

 

“She’s fifteen,” Matthias says. “Should be home, not out here. What’s her father thinking?”

 

“ _ His _ father’s dead,” Porthos says. “Died in the service of France.”

 

With a shackle on his ankle, Porthos doesn’t say. Doesn’t think about Milady and her part in that. Doesn’t think about Athos, leaving as the war began, even after  _ that _ . 

 

“He has a place,” Amyot says, calm, his deep voice chastising Matthias. 

 

Matthias opens his mouth so Porthos rides ahead a little ways, catching up with Jean Bertrand. Their sixth, their shooter, is at the rear. His job will be to hang back and cover them if shit goes down. Porthos rides alongside Jean for a while, then shifts back to the other three, giving them directions. They ease apart, reaching the town within the hour. It becomes quickly apparent why they are here: Porthos hears Spanish and knows that this might not be Spanish territory but they’ve somehow snuck in and taken this town. He curses his tongue for not knowing the language. Bertrand and Matthias both speak it. 

 

Porthos leaves his horse in a small, thick grove of trees and walks the rest of the way, tugging his stained cloak around him to hide his armour. He looks like a soldier but he needs new boots, his cloak is a state, his hair’s too long. He can look more like a deserter. Plus there’s still that hole in his pauldron, he didn’t get around to patching it yet. He stops to stow his pistol and knives out of sight. The sword is Treville’s, Porthos grasps it for a moment for luck before taking it off his belt, sheathed, and mucks it up in the dust and some earth. He dirties his trousers, too, and then carries on his way. He undoes the braid in his hair to let it froth around his head. It’s too clean. No one’ll notice that, though, not at this length. Not with his kind of hair.

 

He comes across refugees, first, and finds a man who speaks German with enough French to get them by. A shopkeeper, knowing a little of the town, enough to tell Porthos where to go for food and shelter. If he’s lucky, the man says. Porthos is feeling lucky. He keeps quiet in the inn, not giving away his French. He has a tiny bit of German but not enough to pass as anything other than French. He can curse in Spanish. That might come in handy. He buys wine silently, holding up a hand and waiting for the woman to guess what he wants, hands over a German coin he nicked from another soldier a bit ago, and sits quietly, keeping his cloak around him, listening. He can understand more German and Spanish than he can speak, he picks up enough. When he feels he’s exhausted what people here know he passes on, finding another tavern. He has no more money so he uses his Spanish, cursing until they think him a mad Spanish deserter or something and give him brandy to calm him. He’s making too much fuss, he’ll get noticed, so he sits quietly again. 

 

He makes his way through the town and then back to the meeting point, passing on what he’s learned (not a lot). He sends Jaques and Matthias back around the town, he and Lachy, the shooter, and Bertrand and Amyot head for the gate. Athos will be attacking from the front, they hide themselves near as they can get and wait. 

 

**

 

The fight is quick and hot, neither side with enough powder. They burn out their guns in the first few exchanges and then there’s an impasse, the Spanish keeping in the town, the gate and wall keeping Athos and his men outside. Then there’s an explosion, not a big explosion but enough to get attention. The gate swings open and the fight’s with them again. Athos can see Porthos, roaring, surrounded by Spanish soldiers, dragged away from the gate. He can’t watch for long, just long enough to see Porthos free himself and leap away, laughing, whirling to catch a blade, cloak billowing about him. The fight peters out, the Spanish retreating behind a barricade, Athos pulling his men to the wall. Another impasse, more waiting. d’Artagnan will be coming from the side, they have to wait now. Porthos has vanished back into the town. 

 

**

 

Porthos runs. He’s shaken the soldiers, the townspeople have all melted away, hiding from the soldiers on both sides, in their houses. He keeps running, ducking into doorways and down allies until he’s sure, then he pulls out his bandana from his pocket and ties his hair up, hiding it. He finds an inn and slips into the kitchen, knife out. No one’s there, everyone’s hiding. Word’s gone round, Porthos guesses. The kitchen is small and probably for the family who live here more than for the inn. He washes up quickly and goes out into the inn-room. He commandeers a fresh cloak and goes back into the street, heading for the city walls. 

 

He walks unobstructed, and reaches the wall without a problem. He follow it along, orienting himself the best he can from their intelligence gathering and heading for the place they think there might be a door. He finds it, a large group of soldiers lounging, all tense and ready. Porthos steps out and waits to be noticed. A soldier says something in Spanish to him. He recognises ‘friend’. At his incomprehension the soldier switches to German and Porthos recognises ‘house’. He assumes they take him for a townsperson. He shrugs and looks around, then shrugs again and heads for the door. The soldier stands in front of him, talking fast in German. Porthos gives him a shove and points at the door. The soldier shoves back. Porthos forgets the door and squares off, bullying forwards. 

 

Now he’s in the centre of the group. He pulls his knife out and lunges. It’s a close fight, so many bodies, too close for swords. Porthos always has an advantage here, this is where he’s familiar and comfortable. It’s not hard to take out the first four men and by that point he’s reached the door. He doesn’t slow, barrelling into it with his shoulder. It shivers and bounces open, they didn’t even bother to lock it. Porthos spills out and see d’Artagnan leaping up from cover, French soldiers running and yelling. It’s only moments before the Spanish are overtaken and tied up or dead. d’Artagnan leans on the wall, cutting up an apple with his knife, regarding the soldier who had been in charge of this post. 

 

“You nicked that out of my things,” Porthos says, taking the apple away from d’Artagnan. Really, why does the boy always try intimidation-by-fruit? “We don’t need anything from these idiots, come on. Francois, Catte and Lyons stay on guard.”

 

They head across town, no one comes out of their houses. They have to duck back and stand against the walls now and then when there are Spanish soldiers trotting through all clanking with weapons. This seems to be a small garrison, though, there aren’t too many and most are at the front gate for the stand-off with Athos. The wall on the other side of the town has no door but Bertrand talked to a woman who had felt the French might be better masters than the Spanish. Apparently this side of the city is where the water comes in and there’s a culvert. This too is guarded, with soldiers more alert than the other side, but they’re expecting an attack from outside not from within. It’s not too hard to take them out. One of them gets lucky and cuts Porthos’s cheek but it barely draws blood. This time they tie those still alive one behind the other. 

 

“Ok,” Porthos says. “You head for the gate, let’s have the first wave backing up Athos before the explosion alerts those on the gate to the possibility of us coming behind.”

 

d’Artagnan nods and hurries off, kicking their prisoners into a jog, beckoning the rest of his men. Soon Porthos is alone again. He sets up charges then waits, sitting on a stone. He waits. He gives d’Artagnan enough time to reach the gate then sets off the explosion, scrambling out of the way. The wall opens up and Ettiene comes up with his men, picking his way through the rubble. He finds Porthos and clasps his arm. 

 

“Subtle,” Ettienne says. 

 

“Did you want to crawl in the Sewers? That was Matthias’s suggestion,” Porthos says. “He didn’t even know how big they might be, might have been tiny.”

 

Ettienne shrugs, grudgingly, and they head once more for the gate. 

 

**

 

Athos notices d’Artagnan because he’s looking for him. They’re ranged near the gates, now and then exchanging shot with the Spanish soldiers there. He sees d’Artagnan and his men begin to stealthily thin out the troops, but no alarm goes yet, no one notices. Athos rises from cover and offers a distraction, shooting with more intent than an idle exchange of shot for something to do. It’s not going to buy much time, d’Artagnan will be noticed soon, Athos hopes he has a plan for that because he only has about ten men and they’re in the middle of the most heavily fortified bit of ground in the town. He needn’t have wasted energy on worrying about someone noticing d’Artagnan’s small, subtle attack. 

 

Before anyone can notice d’Artagnan or react very much to Athos’s shooting, something explodes again. Not small, this time; for a second Athos thinks it’s the whole town gone up, the rush and shiver in the earth, the clap of sound and the billows of smoke, but no. d’Artagnan’s up and shouting, the gate is still held by the Spanish, the world goes on. Athos calls the order to charge again and they join d’Artagnan in the fray, hot and chaotic, things fading out beyond the now the here the clash of someone’s sword, the soft-hard plunge of his knife into flesh. The heavy breathing and stamp and the explosion of a gun near his ear. All there is to do this close is fight. Athos fights. He turns and twists and runs and finds d’Artagnan at his back for a moment. They break apart, going separate ways, gathering men to them and calling their orders. 

 

They’re not going to win, there are too many Spanish. They thin them out and there are so many dead but they seem to keep on coming. The gate was too well manned. They didn’t plan for this. Athos fights, calling his men closer, gathering them tight and defensive and back to back. 

 

The smoke and dust and smell of powder parts, suddenly, with a roar and Porthos and Etienne and twenty men come through, no stopping them, blades bright and burning as the sun sets and lights them on fire. Athos grins and leans on his sword, watching as Porthos takes the gate, pounding through, Ettiene’s men spreading out behind him. They’ve made a good dent in the Spanish defence but now, with new troops coming up behind, there is no chance and before long the Spanish soldiers drop their weapons, hands in the air. Athos watches still, feeling content, watches Porthos chivvying the last of the Spanish soldiers, gun slung over one shoulder sword in the other hand to point and nudge gentle. He coralls the Spanish against the wall then comes swaggering over to Athos. 

 

“Matthias and Jacques are somewhere,” Porthos says, voice low. “They both speak Spanish and they were doing well, they thought they might blend in so they’re around. I arranged to meet them at an inn this evening, if there’s going to be a lot of resistance here I’ll keep them skulking about. Yeah?”

 

“Sounds good,” Athos says. 

 

“What’re you grinning about?” Porthos grumbles, leaning beside him, tipping his head against the wall, tired out. 

 

“I like watching you fight,” Athos admits. “You impress me. I enjoy it.”

 

“Oh,” Porthos says. 

 

“You impress me in general,” Athos says, frowning. “Porthos, have I told you how much I value your strategic mind and intelligence, recently? And your leadership, and your skill in a fight.”

 

“You don’t keep it secret,” Portho assures, there’s a pleased smile playing about his lips though. “You’re not usually so overt in your praises.”

 

“Hmph,” Athos says, looking around. “Is there anything here? Why did we get diverted?”

 

“Dunno. Position? Just to take something the Spanish had?” Porthos says. “Wasn’t enough men or firepower here for them to guarding much.”

 

“We could write to the minister, ask him,” Athos says. 

 

“Orders were to wait here, right? For more instructions. Being sent willy-nilly across France,” Porthos grumbles. “So much waiting around.”

 

Athos reaches out to touch the small graze on Porthos’s cheek, pressing his thumb to stem the bleeding. Porthos flinches away and slaps at Athos’s hand. Athos finds his scarf in his pocket, but can’t find any water. He reaches across to pat Porthos down for his, met again with Porthos trying to bat him away. He’s insistent, though, and finds the canteen Porthos carries, wetting his scarf and cleaning the dust and grime away from the new cut. Porthos gives in to his first-aid with ill grace. 

 

“Just imagine what Pepin would say if I left this like it is?” Athos says. 

 

“He’s a right chastiser,” Porthos agrees, giving in some more and subsiding against the wall. 

 

“He’s doing well, isn’t he?” Athos asks, hearing too much uncertainty in his voice and hating it. He should be able to assess his own men but too often, still, he looks to Porthos or d’Artagnan to back up his impressions, to get assurance he’s doing this right. 

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, smiling, taking it as sharing pride in the young man instead of Athos being daft. “Yeah, he’s brilliant.”

 

They sit together, watching the men around them as they secure the post. Athos gives a few orders about finding lodging, making sure their men know that they are not entitled to take anything. They pay their way at inns, or they ask lodgings and pay what’s required, or they camp at the wall. Tents start to go up and the refugees, messengers and medics arrive. Pepin moves competently through the injured, prioritising needs and ignoring nationality. Athos gives him a nod when Pepin looks over to check he’s doing right. Porthos sighs heavily and Athos looks at him, again, instead. 

 

“I believe I have stiffened into this position and shall never be able to move,” Porthos says. “I’m definitely too old for this.”

 

Athos laughs, it just bubbles out of him, his fondness for Porthos and just how ridiculous the idea that Porthos will ever be too old for this, overwhelming him. He holds Porthos’s arm and when he looks up he catched d’Artagnan smiling over at them. He relaxes, pleased that they’ve come through with only two casualties, minimal injuries and Porthos firm and fit at his side. 

 

“I will help you,” Athos says. “Old man.”

 

“Will you carry me?” Porthos says. “We should build a chair for me to be bourne about on.”

 

“Lord above, Porthos, you’re the life of me,” Athos says, squeezing Porthos’s arm and getting to his feet. 

 

Porthos groans and creaks and makes a right fuss over getting up, Athos half-dragging him to his feet. When he’s up he grins and ruffles Athos’s hair, winks at him, and saunters off with absolute grace and not a single sign of stiffness or tiredness. Athos watches him go with a little head-shake, amused and pleased with a world that has Porthos in it. 

  
  



End file.
